


nothing but

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Backstory, Beforetimes, But the manner in which it happens isn't necessarily canon, Canonical Character Death, Gen, no gods no masters no beta, the warriors of darkness are also a bit softer than the title implies, the warriors of darkness are pals between themselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 22:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20535860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: .4 Shifting blameWhat leads a man to cause the Flood of Light, and the steps taken afterwards.He leaves Cy- he leaves the Shadowkeeper in Laxan Loft.





	nothing but

He leaves Cy- he leaves the Shadowkeeper in Laxan Loft. The title fits her ill: no dark seeps from her armor any longer to bind her wounds, nor are there attacks just on the other side of visible. Ardbert wants, even now, to tell Lamitt to heal her. Heal the crushing blow at her shoulder from his ax, the slice in her chitin armor at her side. But it is the Shadowkeeper he leaves, and not his friend.

He still can leave her out of a battlefield. Ardbert cannot be gentle, now, not when even with her arts she has taken wounds. He is not much better, but Lamitt has Nyelbert and Renda-rae to tend to, and he can pull Cy- the Shadowkeeper over his shoulder anyways. Branden takes her sword, and the misericorde at her waist, before she can think to pull them on Ardbert. Not that she would, with her plan once needing otherwise, but the Shadowkeeper knows herself to have lost. He trusts Branden with knowing what knights in desperation will do, and he apologizes to her when he jostles her as he drags both of them to whatever is nearest and whole.

“Why are you doing this?”

He leaves the Shadowkeeper in Laxan Loft, but he does not leave his friend. 

“I want to ask you the same.”

And it is his friend that gives him that expression, the one where she’s exhausted and intends to leave Renda-rae or Nyelbert to explain, ever quicker on the uptake. It’s his friend that sighs, and shifts in his grip, and winces when Ardbert makes sure that while she can get comfortable she cannot get away. She’s always done that, maybe, and while he knows the others are more than capable of halting her if she tries it now, it’s the last he’ll have. Even if it is just limping into what could’ve been a storage room- not an armory, he should’ve checked- and dropping her to lean against some crates to talk in a bit more privacy.

Branden stands at the exit, looking far less worse for wear than the rest of them. Nyelbert has trouble negotiating his staff through the door, and Renda-rae has her hunting knife in hand. Lamitt pushes through and raises her healer’s wand, magic drawn from the earth and pushed none-too-gently into the wounds Ardbert still bears. He will not ask Lamitt to heal her, but he wants to. As much as he wants answers.

“I told you before.”

“You told me what you wanted me to do, and I didn’t do it.” Couldn’t, because one thing is killing the Shadowkeeper and another is killing his friend, as his friend, and not as Branden did Sauldia. Not yet, and not like this. 

“Why?”

It won’t stop the fighting is the first answer. Those in the Shadowkeeper’s service don’t fight just because she does, and they decidedly don’t fight for the same cause if all she said is true. They want Laxan Loft, not whatever is beyond Nyelbert’s hollow-space spells or the deep of the sunless sea. And like it or not, the Shadowkeeper is the only lead they have for their true targets; if she dies, the hunt dies with her.

What Ardbert says, standing a bit straighter after Lamitt has finished with first aid but before she can start with her own suggestion on what they should do, is simpler. 

“You were my friend. Is that not enough?”

Kholusia is still. The sea is molasses and glass, green-gold and glowing. There is no barrier between it and the sky, not even Seto’s shadow. As fast as the amaro is on the wing, he feels like he isn’t cutting over the land at all.

The first news were from Daedalus Stoneworks, their contacts far across the sea suddenly cut. Then it was one of their more bookish acquaintances, their own ship narrowly avoiding a perfectly white tide. The first time, at least; the second time, they were not so lucky, and the report had come from another soul that had sighted their teal-sailed ship speared by milky crystal and tossed about like a toy before fading completely. Then there was nothing across the sea at all, or along its route.

The last news were from the viis, a wailing troupe forced to abandon their charge, their consorts, their knowledge. The Kah’rhazi Jungle was consumed with its one hundred and eight gods, with its Astropolis and the treasures of Ronka. They carried what they could to their sisters in Yx’maja and beyond; it is not enough. It cannot be enough. They mourn their Emperor, and Ardbert feels their sorrow as fire in his chest.

He bids Seto land. They are closer to Eulmore than any of them would like, but heading towards Tomra would draw the attention of Lamitt’s former kin. Her charges had scattered in good health; they had not returned as such, those that were able to. Tomra had been hostile then; to the ones that brought such a schism, it would not hesitate to bring out more than just automata and sulfur. Eulmore at least would not interrupt them with hostility, struggling as it is with the refugees and the shifts in power, but it is unfinished business Ardbert would rather not be able to see from so close.

Renda-rae had barely been able to reassure the clan hunters, and the Wild Hunt had lost plenty to the wicked white when it sweeped close. Nyelbert’s consortium had made it to Eulmore with no more knowledge than anyone else about the Flood of Light save a tentative name for it and a magical alignment, and reneging its son for his wandering ways. For the hollows not having the desired effect, after all this time and all this effort, and-

And the Man in White, eerie in his calm, had invited himself to a masquerade. He was unaffected by the forced revelry, the desperation and the last pleasures before rationing. He was unimpressed by Ardbert’s disguise, by his need to not be the man that caused the Flood for a night, an hour, a dance with Renda-rae too stiff in her voeburtian dress and her dryad’s mask. But he had a solution, and could be convinced to linger in the area for long enough for everyone to settle their affairs.

The Shadowkeeper had not mentioned him, but he knew of her, and of how she had been fond of this land in the end. How Ardbert loved- and here Ardbert had silenced him, because it was enough, and he couldn’t but agree. So now he stands, on an outcropping that looks out to sea, and waits. He sharpens the edge of his ax, shines it with the last of the oil he has. Seto huffs at him, the fishing pole he usually takes out on outings like this left all the way back in Eulmore, and no proper place to sit and wait for bites anyways. 

Again. Another huff. At him, and not at the contents of his pack.

“What is it, Seto?”

The amaro gives him a long look before nudging the shoulder opposite from his guard. Ardbert lets go of the oilcloth, and places his palm over Seto’s muzzle before stroking back to the top of his head, between his ears. Again, and again. There’s damp from sweat, but he’s still soft to touch as ever, and it’s the last he gets. “Afraid I picked a fight?”

Seto snorts and nearly pushes Ardbert’s hand off his head. “Alright, you aren’t afraid I picked a fight. You know I picked a fight. So you know I cannot just leave and go get you some fish.”

The amaro rears, and Ardbert doesn’t flinch. He should- the Man in White said it couldn’t just be any kind of death, for this- but it’s Seto. His front paws throw up sand and scrub, and he huffs again with more exasperation.

“Later-” He cannot promise later. He cuts off, sighs, then raises his hands to soothe the offense in his friend’s furry face. “Seto. I have to fix this. I know you would rather I take off with you, but…”

They have nowhere to go. Nowhere but where the Man in White offers, and it is hard enough to do. The amaro, out of all of them, has done nothing wrong. Not even now that he complains and bats his wings and settles down only grudgingly with the promise of more headpats until the rest make their way here. 

It’s the last Seto gets, too, and Ardbert sends him off with a rap to his flank. There will be no witnesses, and no one to judge him. He deserves it; Seto does not.

Nyelbert goes first. Magic answers him the easiest; it follows that the Man in White’s spells would do so too. The other is unreadable under his crimson mask and hood, posture at formal rest. 

“You may go as you like. All that is required are your Crystals with undimmed glow.”

A breath, and richest violet rests in Nyelbert’s hand. His athame is in the other, used only rarely, and unsteady in its grip. It has never cut flesh, much less Nyelbert’s own. Lamitt closes her eyes, and after a moment so does Renda-rae. Ardbert only meets Nyelbert’s gaze, then grips the hand holding the knife. His ax’s blade is keen, and so is his own short blade for mercy’s sake.

“The plan is mine. I cannot ask this of you,” even if we have to. “This is mine to do.”

Only his. Ardbert knows he is the one that spared the Shadowkeeper. The one that ran Loghrif through, caved Mitron’s ghostly chest in. At Nyelbert’s nod, he puts an arm around his friend’s shoulders, and takes blame one more time.

Lamitt is the last. He lays her down, closes her eyes. The Man in White’s hands remain unstained as he pries her mountain-heart crystal from her cold grip, her soul from her rent chest. The gilt on his claws is the only part Ardbert can bear to see, fire beating in his own heart, wanting to rush. At him, through him, beyond the slice of a rift he opens to push that burning aether through like breath from their lungs. 

“My associates will be waiting with further instructions on the Source.”

This is as they had agreed. He breathes out what feels like ash, grief making his grip shake. He’ll have to steady it for himself, Ardbert knows. Make it quick. “And should we have more questions?”

“They will know to answer.”

To his credit, he does not growl, though neither is he silent. And to the Man in White’s, he still does not react. Not when his crystal fair burns enough to blister, not when magic dances in a way that would have--

Bastard. Ardbert closes his eyes, and lets go.

Horizon is deceptively cold at night. Ardbert does not feel it, though Urianger does enough to only ever leave in thick robes. The land he calls Coerthas certainly deserves it, being just like Voeburt in the winter. So does the withering glance Ardbert sends him, or he wishes.

It is not the first time he has killed a friend. Five times all told. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s killed someone else’s friend. But at least, every time, he has done it himself. Even Norvrandt was his own.

The lure is to be Ifrit- the first kill they had, by Urianger’s reckoning, or at least the first of the legend- and the target the Warrior of Light. The Man in White needs them dead, which is enough for Urianger. Ardbert wonders what drives him to follow the Ascian, but he cannot allow himself to care now. It had been enough to see him pale when Renda-rae had shot the girl, the forced glee in her voice unknown Urianger but all too clear to Ardbert. He wants to spare others some horrible fate. He needs someone stronger.

Ardbert is strong enough to ruin his world. He will be strong enough to save it from his own hand.

He is betrayed, and it doesn’t hurt.

He charges Hydaelyn- Her Voice- because he has to. Because it’s still one life for one world, and he cannot let it be his world that isn’t saved. Even if it ruins elsewhere, despite it ruining elsewhere, he’ll have to take the Warrior’s place. He knows.

It isn’t Hydaelyn’s fault, but his. His prayers were listened to, and he did not seize the chance, did not have the strength, took the Man in White’s hand. 

The Mothercrystal offers to make it right, and behind Her Ardbert can see her Warrior stiffen. Hands about to reach for something- weapon, the young woman Hydaelyn has taken for her own, themselves- eyes pinned on him. Ardbert moves so he comes face to face with them, Hydaelyn passively moving off to the side, and peels his hands away from his weapon in full view. They will go home, so he has no reason to strike; the Warrior is fool enough to try and protect her, he trusts. He wants them to be.

He starts speaking with the same certainty he had before everyone’s arrival to the end. He ends with the hero perilously close, if he was one to care for bodily harm, and their hands curled into fists at their side. They can do better than grasping for this. Than Renda-rae about to fade, spilling into breeze; than hoping home is not yet pure blinding white.

“So please… forge a different path. Seize a better fate.”

Nabaath Areng is drowning. He wants to pull people out of buildings, out from where they huddle hoping the tide will part.

Minfilia leads the way towards the top of the Pristine Palace, above the magi’s spires, and raises her hands. In a heartbeat, it slows. In another, it stops. The third resists her, the fourth tests her strength. Branden rests his hand on Minfilia’s shoulder, then pushes forwards. Ardbert thinks he hears Sauldia’s name, but the rest is lost as he fades like morning mist. Nyelbert follows, only a beat behind as shock leaves him, and lightning rolls across the expanse of Light. Then Renda-rae, a full-blown storm, Lamitt-

Minfilia bats him away. She has the strength for it now, glowing in her chest, in eyes that are a fathomless blue. There is no ease in how she holds the Light at bay, but neither is there struggle. He wants to push it back, leave Norvrandt as it was- again, she pushes him away.  
“You yet have a role to play.”

“I want this!” He needs it, is desperate for it. The third time, he does not get to lift his hand. Minfilia is as serene as the Man in White was, and when she next speaks the force of it sends him reeling. Nabaath Areng fades far below his feet, the cool radiance of the Flood above his head mixing with the formless sky. 

Minfilia smiles, and Ardbert is no more.

He left the Shadowkeeper at Laxan Loft. So he wakes there, at his first mistake. The stone is whiter than bone, than it ever was in life when the outpost was manned and bustling. It is markedly empty now. The plants in the courtyard have died, the battlements brought low.

He returns to Laxan Loft often, though he doesn’t know how. He will lose himself, and reappear at the southernmost rampart. He has thrown himself into the rare conflicts, and he has passed through them like a shadow. He has run from the light-born monsters, been caught, been ignored. The others have not been half as lucky; he has stopped waiting for them to appear with him at the battlements.

He finds a crystalline spire tearing up the horizon once, and feels nothing. The fighters turn to merchants, and die all the same. They are victorious sometimes, and escape to that crystal spire in the distance. He does not know what it is. He does not know if it is, but neither is it as he is.

He loses himself. He loses. He.

He wakes, and he is not in Laxan Loft.

The bar is open, to the everburning sky and to the gardens that lead to market. The barmaid looks through him as she sweeps a table clean, and he has seen her face before. In a corse’s, in a shade’s, in. In. He cannot remember. He is not in Laxan Loft, and he has not failed to be in Laxan Loft for longer than he can remember.

He walks down. He finds the nearest enclosed building, seeking the familiarity of the ramparts. It is not for protection but for dwelling, people phasing through him to find an apartment number, to find the right staircase, to simply walk. He stops walking and simply drifts; maybe if he drifts enough, he’ll awake at Laxan Loft again.

A gasp stops him. He’s gone through a door, and the single room he can see is occupied. The window is open but lets in no stale air, the table has a traveling pack thrown over it.

The Warrior of Light stares at him, wide-eyed. One of their hands opens and closes, grasping at something, before they move towards him. He- Ardbert, his name is Ardbert- he flinches back. They are unarmed and he is not, and he is in…

That’s less important. “You can see me?”

It is an obvious question. It is an easy question, easier than asking why they are here. Ardbert heard them called hero, once; if they are here, it means he missed something, failed to do something. It is easy to fit it as something they now have to settle, but he wants a moment more of denial. He wants their eyes on him, if not the exhaustion, the concern in their face. It isn’t for him, at any rate, but it is what he has.

Better than their impossible task. Ardbert’s to bear, not theirs, and yet here they stand. In a room lent to them, searching for friends, their weapon by the door and their armor cast off for the evening. Before they can make a vow, or deny it, Ardbert promises to keep watch. It is what he can do, what he must do, if the burden is his.  
He leaves before they can reply, pity or disdain on their lips. Ardbert has not the heart.


End file.
